


Malady of the Heart

by LitMech (PatrioticFrisbee)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, REALLY Old Work, So I'm putting it here, That I want to Continue, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatrioticFrisbee/pseuds/LitMech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock writes a letter. John spends some time thinking about what Sherlock has said, what it means, and where the Devil this headache came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"To One Doctor John Watson, MD.

I have had an impeccable, insatiable need, as of late. An awful monstrosity of a desire that has cause many nights of restless unease (though, perhaps in my case this is not so out of sorts, this fact aside, I would like to continue). It has become an urge, my dear Doctor, that has sent my more-than-capable mind into stages of total paralysis, leaving me in a daze seated within a particular armchair I quite favor, with a look of utmost fixation on the wall in my most immediate line of vision. My dear land-lady (quite a gem might I be so able to pause to assert), has been startled nigh three times thus far in finding me in such a trance and has called upon your aide every time hence. Therefore, I write to you now on the terms of said mental detachment.

First, let me assure that I, as magnanimous in my knowledge as completely capable for one man, to tend to keep my own accord. Private records that have yet to see the light of neither day, nor ink well, and have remained all locked quite safely away in my deepest conscious. Second, do forgive my poor spelling, I write to you in young hour of the morn in which I have yet to see in many weeks. Or have frequented in the last few days, and ne'er before. I suppose that would depend on you  
I digress. Second, please do forgive my spelling; if at all an error occurs. I would assume there be none, but, who is to say my perfect can not cause for mistake one time out of a dozen. I myself am as human as the next man, though infinitely more observant and far more sophisticated (despite your inquiry to my lineage through the various species of Primates), if I say so myself. And yet I digress again. You seem to be quite keen on causing me to deviate from my original purpose. It intrigues me. And, in truth, I have now forgotten what I was meant to say. Allow me a moment to reread my aforementioned statement.

Ah yes. The reason for my strange and trance-like behavior has been a thought, a seed of many shoots if I may, that has been planted in my brain for the better part of a year now. It seems I have, somehow despite my efforts, become quite enamored with someone in quite particular that I am afraid I do not understand. Not only is this particular event it and of itself unfortunate, but to further my displeasure, that which is the subject of my affection has been engaged to be wed for a good few months (if it has been that long, it seems my pension for keeping clock is lacking. One of my few and very far between faults, dare I say). I am in love with a promised hand! This has yet to be proposed to another beside yourself, dear doctor, and if I may ask for your silence it would be most highly appreciated if it was to be kept. I have come to a conclusion based of the evidence aforementioned, however this mere statement would be unwelcome and most likely overlooked by a physician such as your self, for you hold no PhD and thusly no desire to speak of matters of the mind (though, here is where my strengths do happen to lie). So, from hence on this lovely parchment I shall continue with my physical ailments that have, in themselves, also alluded to my previous mention of a conclusion (which, if patients be a virtue of yours dear doctor, which I do hope it is, will be mentioned soon enough).

My current physical abnormalities in no particular order or severity are as follows:  
-Most frequent headaches, though no more sever than on average occasions.  
-Aching of the thoracic cavity, more centrally within the cardiac area, and the occasional inability to breathe when in the presence of whom I am enamored.  
-The aching grows far worse, however, when out of the presence of my present affection, again central most to the heart area.  
-Unusual pains in my extremities, more so in the elbow and knee areas, though often too are the shoulders in mild distress.  
-Sudden wakefulness from violent dreaming, often causing physical release of the sexual kind that leave me most certainly spent in the realm of energy (in case this note is of vital importance. I would not want to keep you from any necessary component of my illness).

Through the complete expression of the aforementioned evidence, I shall now present to you my hypothesis. I am, most certainly, suffering for a phenomenon known as 'love-sickness'. I have inevitably fallen victim to an incredibly contagious interruption to my well-being, and as swiftly and smoothly as it has settled into my life, I would, most certainly, enjoy it leaving the way it came. I know of no other more capable doctor in the whole of England to aide me in my goal to become well, and thus I turn once again to you for your capable advice in all things psycho-medic (at least, when it seems to be myself whom is the observed).

Please respond post-haste, and an appropriate time in which I can come to make my visit to your current place of practices.

Yours Most Humbly,  
Sherlock Holmes."

Most certainly, a reply came quite quickly. So quickly, many would think it impossible.  
However, this reply came in a far less formal manor, as well as in no envelope nor seal.

"Mister Holmes,

It would do you most certainly some decent help in getting off your lazy arse, and walking the ten feet down your hall to my room if ever you need my medical assistance. I am, after all, your house-mate. It would also cost you a fair bit less than purchasing a stamp, and waiting three days for the post to give me a letter you could have handed me yourself, or have refrained from writing at all.

In any case, I am free most days, all day. Though do refrain from sitting on me and waking me with a wet dish towel at three in the morning, for I am most un-fond of you on the days in which you partake in such behavior.

Watson"

Perhaps an hour or so after Watson had set the informal letter in Holmes' hand, he found himself in his own room at his desk, staring at the un-ended sentence, to an un-ended paragraph, to an unfinished letter to Mary, who was at current staying with her mother in their country home. A thought had finally crossed his mind, and it cause him pause, frowning faintly to himself as he stared at the offending un-tattled* 't' at the end of 'wait', at the end of said unfinished sentence.  
Holmes had deduced he was not only in love, but with someone married, and quite so infatuated that it had been causing him the maladies he had been complaining about most frequently in the past few weeks. He rolled this thought over twice more in his head, before setting his quill down and sitting back in his chair. Quietly his hand found it's way to his mouth, running over the chapped area with the dull callus of his thumb and staring with knitted brows out his window. Beyond, a woman was hanging damp clothing on a tethered line, but he saw nothing from her, nor the grimy brick across the street. Holmes, quite in love. And with whom? And for what reason had this fact not been expressed to himself? Holmes was not often one to be labeled and introvert, hardly so. His emotions, thoughts, and words (though the later would often do him more good if kept internal) were often splayed out on the metaphorical table of the situation every time for everyone to read, especially to Watson, who, in their time as house mates, had grown (if he said so) quite capable of seeing even the tiniest of expression in his friend. Perhaps it was Holmes' own touch for detail that had Watson on constant watch of him, incase any light of particular interest turned on in the watery doe-eyes of his counterpart. His thumb slid across his lip, as well his moustache, and his brows became more knotted together the further away from reality he strode, and the closer to total meditative thought he grew.

So lost in thought was he, in fact, that his door opened and closed without his notice. He was roused immediately, however, when a hand rested heavily upon his shoulder, though small and effeminate it was. This caused him to jolt in his chair, clutching tightly at his heart before turning in a vaguely violent nature, eyes glaring before falling upon the amused countenance of none other than the subject of his thoughts. Holmes patted his shoulder twice, a broad smile spreading across his unshaven face.

"If I did not know you a man, Watson, I would assume you of a type of jack rabbit. Your ability to jump while seated far surpasses my own."

"Holmes." Watson's tense muscles relaxed, and he forced himself to stand. His heart disobeyed his command to calm, and he allowed it to do so at its leisure. "You have a way with startling me."

"And one would wonder why, you say yourself I am more boisterous than a young bull in a store of fine brass pans." He clapped Watson again on his shoulder, before crossing his arms behind his back. Watson was pleasantly surprised to see Holmes in rather fine attire, in his old (despite it's new, unworn look about it) slate suit, and a rather bright, royal blue tie tucked into his vest.

"At most times, yes. You are quite dressed, may I inquire the occasion?"

"None at all at the current time. However I have a most certain feeling one will be in the making, and thus have justly prepared for such." The way Holmes smiled made Watson uneasy, and yet curious all the same. He motioned to his bed, where Holmes made himself quite comfortable, and again sat in the desk chair beneath him. "I've come on account of your vacancy, as your letter has expressed."

"Of course." Watson nodded firmly, adjusting his position to place the spine of the chair to his companion, splaying his legs to either side of it. His arms crossed primly across it's top, and he rested his chin upon them in a most adolescent nature. Holmes no doubt took note of this easy posture, and his shoulders visibly relaxed (though, in truth, Watson had not noticed how truly tense his friend had been upon entering). "I would assume this is, also, to do with your maladies as of late."

"Most certainly so." Holmes splayed his palms over his knees, drumming his fingers and watching them intently. An emotion of pure shyness swam across his face, though it was so fleeting that Watson could have indeed imagined it. In any case, Holmes remained silent, and offered nothing more. Watson took it upon himself to press the subject.

"And your love-sickness."

"Indeed." Holmes nodded, taking a breath, before holding it inside himself, as if debating on whether or not breathing was beneficial or superficial to his current predicament. Watson opened his mouth to attempt, again, conversation, when Holmes' words sprung fourth with his burst of exhalation. "I do not understand how I allowed myself into this situation, dear Watson, for it is something I have never in my life felt before. Irene, indeed, I thought I loved most dearly. However in comparison to this new affiliation I am afraid my affection for her is shadowed in total inferiority. I am so completely in love with them that I can not sleep without seeing their face. Nay, I can rarely close my eyes to blink and not come across their image." He took another quick, necessary breath for continuing. "It is most ridiculous. I can not cease my thoughts. I have not taken a case, as you know, in the better part of two months now, for these thoughts of whom I love have become so frequent and plaguing that even my judgment takes second hand to them. Logic bids me to release this feeling of utter infatuation, and yet I am completely unable to. I feel most certainly juvenile in this case, and thus require assistance from someone of whom I can trust with this most delicate information, illness, and inevitably, a promising cure." He looked up, and Watson saw, for a brief moment (as brief as the shyness had been), pure self-doubt. "They will never feel to me, as I feel to them, Watson. Please, I am on my metaphorical knees in this instance. How do I let them go?"

Watson's brows had come together millimeter by millimeter through the entirety of the explanation, now very nearly touching and becoming one. Holmes' tone had changed severely, from one of mild conversation, to interest, to irritation, and ended in worry, a frown pulling at delicate features. However, a question that had come up most near twenty and four times in Watson's mind surfaced again, at which time, he voiced it.

"Holmes, may I make a brief inquiry, to better further my knowledge of the situation you've presented."

"Feel free to ask whatever you feel is beneficial."

"Will you answer without pause?"

"I will answer honest and without unnecessary detail."

"With whom are you so enamored with?" True to his word, Holmes did not miss a single beat in his reply.

"Yourself, Watson."

Between them had never settled a silence so impregnated with tension. Holmes kept his eyes on the doctor, searching, staring, hurting. His own brows came together slowly, his chest beginning to tighten in that most sickening way when one knows they are about to be ran through with a knife made of anguish, and only so ran through by someone you care most about. He watched in encased horror as shock settled into bewilderment, which settled then into realization, which quickly faded into an emotion Holmes could distinguish not as anger, nor malice, nor pure and utter sorrow. He was startled when Watson stood so quickly the chair toppled useless to the floor, and strode in quick strides from the room. There was only the soft rustle of a coat and clink of a cane, before the violent slamming of the chamber door cause Holmes to jolt a second time.

He remained staring at the fallen chair, feeling just as tossed aside and forgotten as the object, and remained on the bed as well, afraid, despite it's irrationality and high improbability, that the world beneath him would swallow him up into a darkness so unlike any he had ever imagined. Though, the feeling of weight in his chest, in his head, and in his metaphorical heart, were so dark and compressing that even the innards of the world itself would be brighter and more enjoyable than that of his now more evident plight.

Holmes remained stoic on the bed for three hours after their encounter, before he withdrew into the bathing chamber. Dead were the eyes that stared back at him, buried in the hollow face of a man stricken sick with worry. He saw himself, hand moving slowly with the single blade of his shaving knife, slicing the stubble at its roots to produce a clean-shave cheek on either side of his face. Finished with that, he removed his heavy hair cream from the cabinet below, making generous appliance to his follicles to produce the desired result of hair slicked back and black as polished onyx. His hands were wiped clean of the cream on a near by towel made just for the purpose, before he returned his gaze to that of himself in the mirror. Holmes could only look so long, before averting his eyes in another, more favorable direction. Though still he stood in the mirror, existent in reality as his mortification was in his mind, in the peripherals of his vision. He remedied his sight by closing his eyes, letting a breath that had gone unnoticedly held out in a soft his, followed by a curse of his own name ('Damn your lunacy, Sherlock.'), before he again made way out of his bathroom.

A hansom was hailed half one hour after, and he gathered his travel coat from the rack, as well as his newest hat, and found his way inside. He instructed the man to the Royale, and the rider responded with a click of his tongue (against his right molars) and a shout to the horses, before their hooves made way across the cobbles of Baker Street. Holmes pulled his coat closer about his slight form, resting back against the seat and closing his eyes, bowing his head as if to pray.  
He would not return home until late after dark. His housemate would not return at all.


	2. Chapter 2

"You must be out of your mind," Watson mused to himself, muffled ever so slightly by his nervous tick of lip-chewing (or nail biting, though in this instant he found it more favorable to keep his hand upon his cane, though surely with how hard he was beating the ground with it as he walked, the cane would protest its outrage). "Mind games," He concluded finally, pausing in his stride at the corner to turn around. He took two steps back, reverting towards the safety of 221B, before taking pause a second time. "But if he was telling me in full honesty, then obviously not mind games." He turned again on his heel, as well as the corner, and continued on his way. He walked in longer stride than strictly necessary, and not seventeen meters later his god-forsaken scar cause his muscles to ache most urgently for rest. He took pause thrice that hour at the corner of East and Brinwick, the butt of his cane stationed primly between his feet and both hands upon it's head, holding most of his offered weight. Pedestrians offered hollow greetings as they past, but he saw none of them from behind his eyelids. Occasionally to a woman's voice he'd tip his head, but otherwise remained statuesque at the corner besides a waste bin, and a young boy who held some sort of a package that Watson had, purely on a whim, assumed some sort of a gown. This was brought upon because of his current location just outside of Gardison and Son Tailor Shoppe.

However, this vague and otherwise fleeting thought, just as it was about to be swept from his mind, was firmly grasped at the tail end. Quietly he thanked whomever was above and listening for this, as his current disastrous (and heinous, considering the thought to inform Lestrade of Holmes' blatant and unhindered declaration against both God and Law had been its quite obvious end) train of thought was promptly derailed, and began chugging it's way down another, more pressing (he convinced himself) matter of Mary, the wedding and in fact, the lack of a ring in which he seemed to have found himself. Again. Most peculiar this time, considering the very ring Sherlock had presented him with (and thusly he presented to Mary over a lavish dinner) had gone missing not a fortnight ago, though, somewhere in the deepest corners of his mind he could probably go about finding it in the cavernous chasm that was Holmes' living quarters.

Pivoting on his heel, now with only mildly excruciating protest from his damaged limb, Watson wound his easy way down Brinwick towards Caldwell, and would end his trek at a particular vendor nestled into a building labeled 'Alderwell Jeweler'.

The happenings to dear John Watson thereafter had little impact upon his night, though with every fiber of his natural being, he avoided the house at 221B Baker Street. In all fact, he found himself a carriage and paid a small fortune to have it drive him well out into the country, where Mary was quite excited to find him on her doorstep (despite the morning hours). Wherein, he remained in the country for quite some numerous days, and was in himself quite content. Through the entire stay at his future mother-in-laws he was most exuberant, and enjoyed himself thoroughly in the quiet tidiness of the area. And, as most humans tend to find themselves doing, that which he had desired to forget was, indeed, forgotten with his weekend of merry relaxation.

However, returning to that night, and a certain man left alone, we find Holmes eating quite solemnly at the Royale, at his most usual table, and quite silent in his unwavering observation of the dinner in front of him.

A six ounce (or was so described, though seemed more of the weight near five and two fifths ounces) stake, with a set of diced (chopped in irregular tri-dimensional shapes) red (more of a soft burgundy) potatoes, as well as diced carrots (these, however, were neither bland nor extraordinary and barred little to his attention as the others did. There was only so many things one could think about when presented with the garishly coloured vegetable. Root. Vegetable. Root-Vegiroot. Brilliant!). His wine (a gorgeous ruby 56, cabernet, with a decent leg and, though houses in a grimy and soap-stained bulb-top glass was, in itself, the most satisfying of his meal. Despite it's very faint tartness) was drained twice during the course of his meal, those particular, swift motions of sipping the only time his eyes wandered away from (the six-year-old faux-china plate with wearing blue pain around the edges to attempt grandness; it still failed to present) plate. It took him far longer, strangely, to consume his meal and even once the task had been done and paid for, he remained at his table. Elbows poised enough at an angle that his chin was capable of resting upon his palm, Holmes allowed his mind to drift away from the waking world and off into his frequented realm of fantastical imagination, while in all actually he bored metaphorical holes into the easternmost wall of the grand restaurant Royale.

Three hours he was there, ne'er moving, nor acknowledging the waiting staff as they approached. Some asked to tend for water, others asked of his health and if he was 'all right;' a vague inquiry that on any plane merited no need for an answer, because it was an incomplete thought and non-specific to what part of 'him' as subject 'Sherlock Holmes' was, indeed, 'all right.' Though as posed, the question could be properly answered 'no' in an equally vague and incomplete manor for indeed, not all of his was right.

He did, after all, have an entire left side, as 99.9 percent of his species seemed to (considering most humans were symmetrical in their anatomy).  
In the vastness that was the outside of the Royale, it inevitably became a late hour. Upon the ninth chime of the bell tower, a waitress of not older than twenty six and four months old came upon the man and tapped him on his shoulder. Again Sherlock did not acknowledge her, that is he would not have, until she poured the entirety of a pitcher of ice beneath his vest and shirt. Immediate he leapt to his feet, crying out in minor shock and (as unattractive as flailing about as a decapitated hen would look) flailed about as a decapitated hen would. The ice was eventually expelled from his waist coat and, rumpled and perspiring from his physical exertion (though, the employees surely enjoyed watching such a sight, and for that he was ever so slightly less inclined to remove the woman's limbs one at a time), Sherlock turned upon the woman with an expectant eye.

"Yes, Madame, what can I assist you with."

"Well sir," she said in a distinctly southern, east corner of the grand city accent, "it's ten past nine and as it were, we're to be closing the doors quite. I am indeed sorry for disturbing you, but I do need to ask you to take your leave now." She wrung the handle of the offending pitcher between dirty hands. "Sir."

"Of course." Attempting to gather as much dignity, if any left at all (or had in the first place), to his person, Sherlock pulled his overcoat on with an air of arrogance. He bowed politely to her, before stalking quickly from the building and out into the dark of mid-evening. Once upon the street, his façade of total arrogance was dropped and he allowed his shoulders to roll forward with something akin to shame, though he would protest most profoundly in that it was the child air that turned him in upon himself.

This leg of Sherlock's journey was as uneventful as the good Doctor's, though with far more brooding on the subject of his declaration. At some point, be drawn by fate or familiar surroundings, Holmes found himself again in the boxing ring, bleeding from bruises and unable to see, now, from his left eye; at least four days for the bruising to face, a week for it to be gone completely. After a good few rounds, and a few won bets in Watson's name (habits-old ones, they take the mightiest of swords to fall, and even then often have a tendency to gather their wits and rise again), he was dressed loosely in his outing clothes, headed home by foot, and arrived in his dwelling note a moment past one fourteen and thirty six seconds, in the morning. He remained awake the remainder of the dark hours, wrecking nervous havoc upon his chamber's bookcases, as well as Gladstone (who did wake up a few hours after being put to sleep by a strange mix of things that Holmes had, originally thought, an energy boosting elixir). At near seven that morning he found sleep in his armchair with his fiddle strewn across his lap, and awareness came to meet him once again at three when Mrs. Hudson burst in in her usual way and demanding he eat something (as well as 'M'goodness! Where the devil did such a shiner come from?'). He then stomached a touch of soup, returned to his chambers, and found sleep again. Thereafter, he woke no more until noon the next morning. He ate again, and remained away for another forty-eight hours doing nothing of most pressing importance (in better terms; he remembers little) and fell asleep again at eight on that Sunday evening. Monday, he was aroused by vicious force of sunlight through forgotten windows at nine A.M.

Here, our story returns to a more interesting note, as at this current time Watson had returned (and was also the torturer whom pealed the currents away from their designated places over the windowpanes). Holmes moaned as the dying do, pulling his coat, by now three-and-a-half-days worn, over his stubbled face to hide within the shadows. Watson made quirk work of the rest of the family of curtains, before returning to stand in a most daunting manor above his lump of a companion.

"Holmes." He was met with an incoherent grunt and rolled his eyes, resting his hands on his hips. "Holmes," he repeated, clasping the coat about its collar and pulling. Holmes had a decent grip on it, however, and held to for a good few moments and allowed it's possession to pass. Wherein, Holmes finally sat up in a bleary state of half-consciousness, upturning his scrunched eyes to his company. His usual smile of acknowledgement crossed his features, before he swung his feet to the floor and ran his hands over his face. He was not quick enough to have his abused socket to be hidden and was promptly grabbed about the wrists. Hands forced from his face, Sherlock stared doe-eyed at the set of displeased, examining eyes suddenly quite in front of his face. Watson held Sherlock with more force than needed and it began to ache, though not horrifically so, and tutted.

"Well. Good morning to you, Watson. Where have you been, you've been sorely missed, I assure."

"Obviously," Watson frowned, browns knitting together again. "Quite literally I assume. Goodness." Adjusting his grip, he then held Sherlock's wrists in only one hand, other coming up to touch at the bruise. To his defense Sherlock barely flinched, smiling admiringly.

"As well as metaphorically."

"Your room has because a bio-hazardous wasteland, that much I can be sure of. What the devil happened to you?"

"Boredom and a glass to many of Hadasla Chardonnay. Or Cabernet. It slips my mind."

"Cabernet. Gracious." Watson crouched, tugging and pulling and prodding across Holmes' neck, shoulders and arms. Holmes began to flinch and grunt and wince as necessary, and observed his reactions were in direct correlation with how close Watson's eyebrows were together. That made him laugh ever so slightly, and Watson looked up. "May I ask what is so amusing."

"The fact I find your constant muss about my well-being an attractive trait." The smile froze on his face as his body became just as motionless as the David, and Watson stared at him without a discernable expression. Seconds passed like hours, and Holmes gently nudged away from the doctor finally when his muscles decided movement would be best. This brought the doctor out of his stunned stupor as well, and both coughed uncomfortably. "That statement was intended to remain in my head. You seem extremely able to do that, it would seem."

"Do what," Watson replied as he stood, turning to take rest in Holmes' arm chair.

"Get from me information I would rather not express to the living world." He looked up and made eye contact for a brief moment, before it was broken as both looked away. "…I apologize for my brashness."

"I nearly found myself at Lestrade's office, you know." Holmes' breath caught in his throat and gaze upon a portrait of Irene. "I can not even begin to attempt to believe what you've told me."

"I swear upon my unedited intelligence that every word I said was true."

"Oh would you stop speaking like that." Watson grimaced and looked away, fixating himself upon the ceiling. "I had almost forgotten about our previous encounter and would like to do so again."

"Of course." Holmes took a short breath and closed his eyes. "Of course, Watson."

"…" Watson stood then, and fled from the room to his own. As had they on the corner of East and Brinwick, those damnable thoughts had been awoken again. Holmes was again left alone upon a bed, staring away from his companions retreating back.

A silent week in cases and home. Watson and Holmes only crossed paths perhaps twice in that time, and much preferred it that way. Holmes managed to busy himself with his violin (perhaps the only way Watson knew Holmes was still present in the dwelling) and overlooking the paper. Watson kept much to himself, brooding more over his own thoughts. The wedding drew near, this was a fact no man could change. The fact his heart belonged to Mary was, as well, unchangeable by anyone he knew. Or was it?

This question continued to make his stomach churn, as it bred quickly as wild fire into other questions that had laid dormant since his meeting of miss Mary. Previous, perhaps this scenario would have gone a bit differently. But as it were, every ounce of him denied him access to the necessary thoughts in which he could properly answer the aforementioned question. And through the week he took to raking through his memories, and in every one seemed an overcast of sensory fog, blurring the edges of his conscious and turning him away violently when he knew he was on the trail to salvation.

Though, through every memory he swam through, there was one inevitable fact. It was the same in everyone one, quite obvious to any outsider. And it just so happened to be the fact, Watson could not wade far enough into the fog to see.


End file.
